


The Plighting of Troth, and Other Exigencies

by beetle



Category: The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: LOTR, M/M, The Hobbit - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 07:50:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/746079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the LJ hobbit_kink meme prompt: "Just saw The Hobbit AGAIN and I can assure you - Bofur and Bilbo are totally a thing. Bofur is in love. IN LOVE I TELL YOU! I've read many great fics where Bilbo is being courted and he's not aware so... Bofur informs Bilbo he's in love and would like to get married. Bilbo is flabbergasted but Bofur is a bit clueless why would Bilbo want to reject him. Hobbits and Dwarves? Totally compatibile! Two men? Yeah, um, so? He's gonna have 1/14 of the treasure! He's been told he's a proficient lover!! Bonus points for Bifur and Bombur flanking Bofur all the time during the courting."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Plighting of Troth, and Other Exigencies

**Author's Note:**

> Set post the successful retaking of Erebor by eight months. And for the purposes of this fic, Bifur speaks the common tongue. And a smattering of French . . . just kidding: his French is actually quite fluent :)
> 
> Disclaimer: I'm an existential nihilist and burgeoning absurdist. For serious. Owning things is pointless.

Bilbo is just concluding his lovely afternoon tea with an unprecedented  _second_  cup of tea and another half a blueberry scone—he hates baking, but he's incredibly good at it, if he does say so, himself, and he does—when the bell rings.  
  
Startled into slopping tea into his saucer and the half-scone off its plate and to the table, he scoffs, disbelievingly.  
  
 _Always when I'm about to make myself comfortable,_  he thinks with mild irritation. Mild, because whoever it is can no doubt be sent off just as easily as they came by. Bilbo's become fairly good at showing well-wishers and busy-bodies and the just plain  _curious_  off his doorstep over the months since his return from Erebor.  
  
It'll be the work of but a moment, and then it's back to his cuppa and his pastry.  
  
Putting down his tea and scone, he brushes his hands off on his waistcoat—a bad habit he picked up from living with dwarves for so long, but one he's not really taken it upon himself to correct, to his own continuing chagrin—and makes his way down the hall, to the door.  
  
Setting his face in it's most stolid, serious, somber, and forbidding aspect—which isn't  _very_ , he knows, but can't help it. It's the face he was  _born_  with—he swings the round door open, his own mouth open to wish a good day upon the interloper, and inquire as to his or her business.  
  
But the words tumble from his lips like so many crumbs when he sees who's  _at_  the door.  
  
“Bofur?” he says, eyes surprise-widened and puzzled. For it is, indeed, none other than the aforementioned dwarf, flanked by his brothers, Bifur and Bombur. All three look very prosperous and well-groomed in their fine wool and fur . . . though Bofur still wears that silly hat, which Bilbo actually rather likes. “Bifur—Bombur—my goodness! It's been—well, not very long at all, actually. What are you doing here?” Bilbo asks, smiling until an idea dawns on him. “Oh, no. It's not another adventure, is it? Because I'm just getting back to my routine after that last one. . . .”  
  
“Nay, my gentle hobbit, it's  _not_  another adventure. Or it is, depending on how you look at it,” Bofur hastens to add, grinning. And it's just then that Bilbo notices that the dwarf has both hands behind his back. And he really only notices because Bofur brings one of those hands forward, and in it are . . . posies.  
  
 _Pretty_  ones.  
  
“Er,” Bilbo says, brow furrowing. Bofur's grin widens and he holds the posies out to Bilbo, who takes them hesitantly. “Er, thank you?”  
  
“You're quite welcome. Oh, and there's also this—“ out comes the other hand, and in it is a thick link necklace made of what appears to be  _real gold_. Bilbo's eyebrows shoot up and he looks to Bifur and Bombur for an explanation of this largess. But the former is standing with hands on hips, tapping his booted foot, and the latter is sniffing, nostrils flaring delicately as if he can scent tea and scone, even from this distance.  
  
Sighing, Bilbo looks at Bofur, who's still grinning and holding that necklace out.  
  
“I—I couldn't—“ Bilbo says, holding up the posies to block the approach of the necklace. But Bofur scoffs.  
  
“You can and you will. After all, these are the first of the love-gifts I've brought with me. And these are the  _least_  of them, let me assure you.” Bofur nods back toward the gate, where wait several ponies, three of which are positively  _laden_  with sacks and even a chest, in one poor pony's case.  
  
“Ah—love-gifts?” Bilbo asks, face blanking in confusion. Bofur laughs and steps forward, placing the chain over Bilbo's head, despite his sputtered objections and demurring. It's warm from Bofur's hand and heavy around his neck. Bilbo's certain he looks fairly ridiculous.  
  
“Aye. Now, are you going to invite us in, Master Burglar or will we be kept out here till the moon rises?”  
  
“What? Oh! I beg your pardon—please, come in,” Bilbo says, opening the door wider and stepping aside for the three dwarves to enter. Bofur does, while the other two sigh and go back to the gate to unload the ponies.  
  


*

  
  
It's not until the posies have been put in a vase, tea's been poured for the three and more scones brought out—and pleasantries exchanged about kith and kin back in Erebor—that Bilbo finally sits down across the kitchen table from his visitors and asks, again. “So, what brings you all the way back to the Shire?”  
  
Bofur's eyebrows lift and his mustaches twitch as if he wants to laugh. “Well, I should think it would be obvious.”  
  
“Bloody obvious,” Bifur adds grouchily, and Bofur glares at him. Bombur, meanwhile, takes the opportunity to appropriate Bofur's untouched scone. “What? I'm just saying.”  
  
Bofur clears his throat and looks back at Bilbo. “I'm here to make my suit to you.”  
  
Thinking of himself in tailored dwarf-style clothes, Bilbo's face blanks again. “What?”  
  
“Maybe he really  _doesn't_  know,” Bombur suggests, and Bofur actually laughs, now.  
  
“Well, of course, he knows!” Bofur reaches across the table and puts a large, rough hand over Bilbo's, squeezing it quite familiarly. “You  _know_ , right? How I feel for you? Of course, you do! I've made it fairly plain! Now all that remains is to decide if we suit each other well enough to be going on with.”  
  
Utterly confused, now, Bilbo shakes his head. “I beg your pardon again, Master Bofur, but I have no Earthly idea what you're talking about.”  
  
Bofur searches his eyes for a few moments, his face slowly growing less and less enthusiastic as the seconds tick by. In the hall, the great clock—which has been in the Took family for generations—chimes six.  
  
“You don't know?” Bofur finally asks, removing his hand, and Bilbo shakes his head again. “You really don't?”  
  
“I know nothing.” Bilbo spreads his recently released hands. “Nothing whatsoever. Now, if you'd be so kind as to enlighten me. . . .”  
  
Bofur glances at his brothers, each of whom shrugs, then back at Bilbo, his face flushed red and possessed of a sheepish grin. “I, er . . . had not come prepared to explain myself . . . at least not to this extent.” Sighing, Bofur stands and steps around Bifur and the kitchen table, and makes his way to Bilbo's side, where he kneels, taking off his hat and revealing neatly coiled, elaborately braided hair.  
  
“I'm here, Bilbo Baggins, because I wish to plight my troth. You see, I love you, and I wish to marry you . . . assuming you find me and my gifts acceptable.” That said, Bofur nods once and takes Bilbo's hand in his own—the one not holding the hat—and  _kisses_  it. Bilbo's eyes widen till it feels as if they must fall out of his sockets.  
  
“Will you, until such a time as we marry, or part ways, accept me as your suitor?” Bofur asks humbly, looking up into Bilbo's eyes as solemn and sober as Bilbo's ever seen. More seconds tick by, until nearly a minute has passed, as silent as the grave.  
  
“I—I . . . is this some sort of dwarf joke?” Bilbo frees his hand from Bofur's and stands up, crossing his arms. “Because if it is, you've certainly come a long way to play it on me, and  _I_  for one, don't find it funny.”  
  
“No! It's not a joke!” Bofur is quick to stand up, too. He's taller than Bilbo by a few inches, and Bilbo actually has to look up to meet his gaze. “Dwarves never joke about love, Master Baggins. Not even me. I am perfectly serious when I say that  _I love you_ , and I wish to spend my life with you, if we prove to be compatible. And I  _do_  believe we will prove to be,” he finishes earnestly. “In _every_  way.”  
  
And with that, he steps closer, effectively breaching Bilbo's personal bubble.  
  
Blushing, Bilbo takes a step back and nearly falls over his chair . . . but for Bofur's quick thinking and quick reflexes. He grabs Bilbo by the arms and hauls him back up to his feet. Oh, but he doesn't stop there, oh, no. He pulls Bilbo in close, until Bilbo can smell his scent: metal, wool, and pony, and finally till Bofur's eyes are all he can see.  
  
“What—“ Bilbo begins, but doesn't get to finish because he's being kissed to within an inch of his life. Literally, since the kiss, once it starts, sucks all the air from his lungs and seems to go on forever.  
  
It's the first time he's ever been kissed so. He doesn't know what to do with his hands or his lips . . . or his tongue, once Bofur teases his mouth open. He doesn't know what to do with any part of himself, or Bofur, for that matter. All he can do is moan and absently note how wobbly and noodle-like his legs have gone. Thankfully, Bofur's still got a hold of his arms.  
  
When the kiss ends, both of them are panting, and only one of them still retains the ability to remain upright unaided.  
  
“See? Compatible,” Bofur breathes, his thumbs brushing back and forth on Bilbo's bicepsis. He pulls the hobbit flush against him and—and— _oh, my_ , Bilbo thinks as hot hardness presses against his abdomen. Bofur leans back to looks into Bilbo's eyes. “I've, er . . . been told I'm a . . . _proficient_  lover, just for the record.”  
  
“A—a—proficient  _what_?” Bilbo bibbles, dazed and somewhat confused. Bofur smiles wickedly.  
  
“I could show you, if you like. Right now, as a matter of fact—“  
  
“Ah-ah,” comes a voice from their right. Both Bilbo and Bofur look over at Bifur, who's now standing. He looks stern and annoyed. “You made you intentions clear to your beloved. So there'll be no such shenanigans until  _after_  the acceptance of the gifts and the signing of a marriage contract. You know the rules, brother.”  
  
“He's right, Bofur,” Bombur says, his round, dark eyes narrowed, now. “You must follow the rules for a successful suit.”  
  
“Traditionalist twaddle,” Bofur mutters, looking at Bilbo with the most wanton, hungry look in his eyes. “During the courting process, since you have no brothers to act as chaperons, mine will have to do,” he grits out. “They'll make sure I . . . honor your purity and keep myself from acting in any way . . . improper.”  
  
“And a fine job they've done, so far,” Bilbo says faintly, swallowing and easing himself slightly away from the hardness poking insistently against his midsection. “So . . . this is  _not_  some sort of dwarf joke . . . you really are . . . here to court me?”  
  
Bofur nods, his grin slow and still somewhat wicked. “Aye. To woo you and win you.”  
  
Bilbo blushes again and looks at Bifur and Bombur for help. They aren't any, whatsoever. “But—but I'm . . .  _male_!”  
  
“I've noticed,” all three dwarves say, Bofur leaning in to peck Bilbo's lips quickly. Then, reluctantly, he lets go of Bilbo's arms and steps back two steps. Bilbo, meanwhile, flops down into his chair, thanks to his unsteady legs. He gazes up at all three dwarves.  
  
“But—why me?” he finally asks Bofur, who frowns.  
  
“What do you mean  _why you_?” He kneels again, taking Bilbo's hand once more. “You're smart and brave and funny. And  _lovely_. Durin's beard, you are by far the loveliest person I've ever seen and I've wanted you from the first time I laid eyes on you.  
  
“And your heart. . . .” Bofur's smile gentles into something as fervent as it is reverent.  
  
Bilbo blinks. “W-what about my heart?” he ventures, and Bofur kisses his palm tenderly, then presses it to his cheek.  
  
“You have  _the most_  kind, the most brave, the most  _pure_  heart I've ever come across, Bilbo Baggins.” Bofur leans closer. “And I would feel like the luckiest dwarf in the world if you would give me some sign, however small, that I could find a home there. That I might have a chance— _the honor_  of being loved by you.”  
  
Bilbo's mouth drops open.  
  
“Bofur, I—“ he glances at Bifur and Bombur, who're watching the proceedings like it's a performance. Again, they're no help.  
  
Sighing, Bilbo looks into Bofur's hopeful face and doesn't know what to think or say. His mind is a complete and total blank . . . and then his eye falls on Bofur's hat, forgotten on the floor, and he leans down to pick it up. He brushes it off and puts it back on Bofur's head snugly, covering the fancy braids, and flicks the flaps so they're standing out, just a bit, like they'd used to, once upon a journey.  
  
When he's done adjusting the hat, he looks Bofur over critically, one hand coming down to cup Bofur's face. Bofur leans into that touch, his eyes closing in utter contentment, and Bilbo smiles a little, wonderingly.  
  
“And you're certain that this isn't some . . . involved joke? That  _I'm_  the one you want?” he finds himself asking. Bofur nods, opening his eyes. They shine just as they had the night he and Bilbo first met. Just as they had the night Bilbo had almost made the biggest mistake of his life and sneaked away from the company.  
  
Bofur had been the one to try and stop him from leaving. Just as, a mere few hours before that, Bofur had tried to save his life . . . in the end Thorin had been the one to do so, but no one was more relieved than Bofur. No one else hugged Bilbo so tight he could barely breathe.  
  
No one else had, in the midst of that embrace, exhaled a shuddering breath in his ear, on the back of which was: “I thought I'd  _lost_  you!”  
  
At the time, Bilbo had been too shaken to really think about what Bofur had meant. Had been too filled with a sense of his own mortality. But now. . . .  
  
“I would never make a joke of this. Never toy with your heart or my own,” Bofur is saying quietly, sincerely. “I love you. I want to be your husband, if you'll have me.”  
  
“Bofur, I—“  
  
“Er,” Bombur cuts in, and they both look over at him. He clears his throat. “Once the suitor has stated his intention to court the suitee, the proposal of marriage cannot be answered until all the gifts have been received and a marriage contract presented, and/or negotiated.”  
  
“Thank you so much for that, brother.” Bofur rolls his eyes, then looks back at Bilbo. “Sorry. They're just . . . making sure everything goes the way it ought to go.”  
  
Bilbo stares down into Bofur's face and bites his lip. “I've never . . . no one's ever courted me before. I'm afraid I haven't the slightest idea how to proceed, so we really  _can't_ —“  
  
Bofur kisses Bilbo's palm again. “ _I've_  never officially courted anyone, either—I barely know how to go about it, myself. But these two—between the two of them, I can't go wrong. I  _won't_. And neither will you. So say  _yes_ , you'll allow me to court you.” That smile makes a comeback, wry and hopeful. “At the very least you'll get some lovely gifts out of it.”  
  
“But Bofur . . . I'm a hobbit and you're a dwarf. . . .” Bilbo protests—the only real protestation he has left. He feels as if he's standing at the edge of a precipice, once more, and he's only got one step between himself and falling into the unknown. “We're two different races! We barely know anything about our people's ways!”  
  
“So?” Bofur shrugs dismissively.  
  
“So?!” Bilbo squawks, letting go of Bofur and standing up. He marches out of the kitchen and down the hall, past the front door—where the many sacks and one chest of gifts awaits—then turns around and marches right back.  
  
He finds Bofur staring at the chair Bilbo'd been sitting in, his face downcast and shoulders slumped. Bifur and Bombur are now both standing, looking at each other, then at Bofur as if uncertain what to do.  
  
“So,” Bilbo says, startling all three dwarfs, and when three sets of eyes land on him, surprised, he colors. At the edge of that precipice once more, he takes a step forward, and leaps, without looking down. “So . . . I suppose we'll just have to learn as we go.”  
  
Bofur's solemn, dejected face turns puzzled. “Learn?”  
  
Rolling his eyes, Bilbo approaches his suitor slowly. “About each other's cultures and ways. You won't hear so much as a  _maybe_  from me until we've gotten to know each other better, Master Bofur.”  
  
Bofur's eyes widen and his mouth curves in a small smile. “No, I didn't expect I would, Master Baggins.”  
  
Bilbo nods sternly, sticking out his hand for shaking. Bofur looks at it questioningly. “In that case, we have a deal, Master Bofur. I accept your suit.”  
  
Grinning, now, Bofur gets to his feet and takes Bilbo's hand—for about a second. Then he's pulling the startled hobbit into his arms for a hug. Even lifting him up and spinning him around in a quick circle.  
  
“Put me  _down_ , Master Bo—“ Bilbo commands, or starts to. But Bofur's kissing the words from his lips. Bilbo moans, and his arms wind about Bofur's neck; Bofur groans, and his hands slide around from Bilbo's waist to his backside, where they squeeze rather ungently.  
  
And Bifur and Bombur hem and haw about inappropriate displays of affection  _before_  the receipt of gifts and presentation of a marriage contract. But Bilbo's quite distracted at the moment. . . .  
  
Finally, Bifur and Bombur takes it into their heads to physically pry him and Bofur apart.  
  
“At least see  _some_  of the gifts first, Master Baggins,” Bombur pleads, restraining hands on Bilbo's shoulders, just as Bifur's are on Bofur's. “They really are lovely.”  
  
“But I've already  _got_  gifts—some lovely posies and a big gold chain—“ Bilbo says, trying to get back to Bofur and that  _kiss_  . . . but Bombur's too strong. And anyway, Bofur's acquiescing to Bifur's whispered admonitions.  
  
“Oh, alright,” Bofur snarls, freeing his shoulders. He then straightens out his tunic and bows deeply before Bilbo. “Master Baggins . . . if I haven't put you off by my . . . vulgar display, I'd like to present you with some small tokens of my esteem.”  
  
Sighing, and wondering how many big gold chains he'll have before this whole courting business is over, Bilbo stops struggling against Bombur and nods as graciously as he can. He reminds himself that no matter how wonderful a kiss it had been, he is still, and always will be a  _civilized_ hobbit. “I'd love that, Master Bofur.”  
  
Bofur extends his arm and after a moment, Bilbo takes it. Lets himself be pulled to Bofur's side and his cheek be kissed chastely.  
  
Then, with Bifur and Bombur flanking them like an honor guard, they make their way down the hall, to the pile of gifts.  
  
Bilbo is intrigued, in spite of himself. “Which one should I open first?” he asks his suitor, and Bofur smiles.  
  
“Whichever you choose.”  
  
“Ah, but only one per day, tradition states,” Bombur chips in. Bifur grunts. “And there are exactly forty-one presents to be opened. So there'll be plenty of time to . . . learn about each other, you see. And without all that pesky physical contact to distract you. Bombur and I'll make certain of  _that_.”  
  
Bifur's smile is downright smug.  
  
Bilbo's eyes widen and he looks at Bofur accusingly. Bofur blushes and shrugs, his smile chagrined.  
  
“Er, perhaps you should open the chest first,” he suggests nervously, digging in his right pocket. He comes out with a small key and presents it to Bilbo, who takes it with a glare. “I think what's inside will definitely pique your interest.”  
  
Bilbo, genuinely put out at the thought of  _forty-one days_  of no kisses—and Bifur's smile had promised there would be  _none_ —rather doubts that. But he takes the key and kneels before the chest, anyway.  
  
It's about the size of a breadbox, and unlocks easily. When Bilbo flips the lid back, he gasps. “Oh, oh,  _Bofur_. . . .”  
  
“On the way here, we passed through Rivendell and, well, Lord Elrond let me choose these for you from his personal library,” Bofur says as Bilbo carefully removes one of the twenty slim volumes inside the chest.  _An Elvish Garden: From Creation to Care_  is it's title, and in the common tongue, no less. The other books appear to be a mixture of histories and poetry volumes. Bilbo  _loves_  history, and poetry even more so. He looks up at Bofur, eyes shining. “So I suppose,  _technically_ , this gift is from him—“ Bofur is saying self-deprecatingly, staring off at the door sulkily. So he's quite unprepared for and surprised when Bilbo flings himself at him.  
  
“They're from  _you_ , and they're  _wonderful_!” he exclaims, kissing Bofur hard and fast, and not resisting when Bifur and Bombur pry them apart yet again. “ _You_  chose them for me—how did you even  _know_  what I'd like?”  
  
Bofur blushes and frees himself from Bifur's hold. “You . . . like them?”  
  
“Like them? I could not have chosen better, myself!” Bilbo exclaims, trying to free himself from Bombur's hold and failing. “How did you get Lord Elrond to part with these?”  
  
“I merely told him whom they were for and why I wanted them,” Bofur blushes again, looking at Bilbo yearningly, but not attempting to get any closer than he already is, even when Bombur lets the hobbit go. “He, ah, extended his blessing over our union. So did King Thorin, for that matter.”  
  
Bilbo finds himself smiling a copy of Bofur's own wry smile. “Is there anyone you  _haven't_  you told about your . . . troth-plighting?”  
  
“Gandalf. But only because we don't know where he is,” Bifur answers for Bofur. “However, our dearest brother's been telling every person we come across that he's got a sweetheart waiting for him in a place called 'the Shire.'” He snorts. “So Gandalf may have heard it through the grapevine.”  
  
“He'll be invited to the wedding, of course,” Bofur says grandly, and Bilbo's eyebrows shoot up under his fringe.  
  
“You're very sure of yourself, aren't you?”  
  
“Should I not be?” Bofur asks, quite seriously. Bilbo smiles cryptically, picking up the chest with a grunt of exertion, meaning to take it into the living room, where he can examine the volumes in leisure.   
  
“Well, we have forty-one days to find out, don't we?” he says. And before he can start off toward the living room, Bofur easily takes the chest from him and waits for him to lead the way.  
  
 _I could get used to this,_  Bilbo thinks bemusedly, stepping past his guests. All the way to the living room, he can feel Bofur's eyes lingering on him. No doubt most especially on his backside. _Though there are some things I'm fairly certain I'm never getting used to._  
  
And, quite unbidden, he remembers how it'd felt to have Bofur's hands there, on his backside, squeezing and kneading so forcefully—  
  
 _Then again, a lot can happen in forty-one days._


End file.
